


Kinky Sex Makes the World Go 'Round

by annie_reckson



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Dirty Talk, Frottage, M/M, punk!Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 11:16:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1302877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annie_reckson/pseuds/annie_reckson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade may be a marginally-talented bass player for a shitty local band, but he has a glorious reputation for something he's much more skilled at doing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Hate You, I Love You

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my. I have [other things](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1179690/chapters/2405427) [I need to be](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1237009) working on, but after seeing [this](http://lestraddlethisdick.tumblr.com/post/79325719682/punk-lestrade-living-in-a-shitty-camden-flat-and) on my new favorite Tumblr, I couldn't resist writing out something quick.

Greg gave a wink to the bartender as she handed him another frosty brown bottle. It was probably his eighth of the evening, but his band had already played so the need for sobriety wasn’t absolutely necessary. Besides, given that the club owner was paying them next to nothing for this gig anyway, it made sense for him to take advantage of the free bar tab.

He snuck backstage and out the back door to have a smoke - wondering what sort of fucking club didn’t allow indoor smoking and making a mental note never to visit this one again. Immediately, the chilly air reminded him that at some point in the evening, he had shed his leather jacket and was currently only in a tank top and tight jeans. Which, fuck, he would have to remember where he’d left it - hopefully in the glorified coat closet they’d been given for a “dressing room - because there was no way he was riding home without it.

Now was not the time, though. Now was the time to softly, every so softly, set his beer on the ground, _gently gently catchee monkey_ , giggle a bit to himself, and cautiously light a cigarette. He got two solid puffs in before the door behind him opened quickly and slammed shut. Suddenly, to his left, was a slender, pale creature looking like a literal mop due to the unruly mound of curls settled on its head. It snapped its head at him and for a moment Greg found himself a bit lost in how impossibly blue the eyes were on this... male, it was definitely male...in front of him.

Greg licked his lips and offered his pack of cigarettes, “Care for one, mate? You look a bit pouty. Might cheer you up.”

The other man snatched one immediately, “Thanks.”

“So...I haven’t seen you before, here at least.”

“You wouldn’t. This isn’t exactly my type of place.”

Greg noticed the sneer and chuckled at it, “Oh really?” He could believe him though, the prickly git was wearing a deep V-neck and a blazer, for Christ’s sake.

“Yes,” The stranger hissed, “It’s a... _friend’s_...birthday. They wanted to see some stupid band and dragged me here.”

“Was it Trash Vendetta?”

“I don’t know, possibly. They all really sound the same - screeching vocals, ridiculous overwrought feedback noise, thrashing guitars in the pentatonic scale...”

“Well if it was...that happens to be my band.”

The stranger gave him a glance-over and quirked his eyebrow up, “Oh yes, I knew you looked familiar. You’re the bass player, right? Not really doing much up there, just mostly there to take up space and look pretty.”

Greg smiled, “I’m glad I could make such an impression on you.”

The pale figure took a long drag before speaking, “You play bass in a shitty local band that plays shitty local dives like this because all your little band can manage are shitty Black Flag and Minor Threat covers and songs that sound like shitty Black Flag and Minor Threat covers. So no, you’re going to have to do a little more to impress me.”

There was a pause as Greg stood with his mouth agape, staring into the widest, cruelest, prettiest eyes he’d ever seen attached to a harsh but gorgeous face and really, in that moment, he was having trouble deciding whether he wanted to punch or fuck this person. In a perfect world, he’d be able to do both. As it happened, he didn’t have time to do either; the stranger dramatically stubbed out their cigarette, gave him another glance-over, and went back inside the club.

Greg ruffled his spiky hair - still sweaty somehow - and let out a few exasperated sighs before taking a drag on his cigarette. He couldn’t believe the audacity of that poncey prick walking around looking absolutely delicious and acting absolutely hateful and...pretentious. He picked his beer back up and took a few long sips before finishing his cigarette and walking back inside.

The headlining band had started playing by the time he made it back to the main area and a pretty girl in tattered fishnets and a short skirt pulled him over to rock against her to the cacophonous beat. This was much more to his liking - bodies dressed in every sort of disarray jumping into and away from each other, sweaty skin occasionally touching sweaty skin, the lingering smell of alcohol when a drunken stranger leaned close to shout something in your ear.

It was all brought to a halt when Greg realised that he desperately needed to take a piss. Perhaps drinking so much beer so quickly wasn’t his best idea. Less than gracefully, he escaped from the mob of concertgoers and slipped into the nearest bathroom. He had just stepped up to the urinal when he noticed who was also in the bathroom - his delightful smoking buddy. Currently, the posh bastard was leaning over the sink and fixing his eyeliner, although how he’d been able to fit his eyeliner stick in his impossibly-tight jeans, Greg had no idea.

He gave Greg little more than a quick side-glance and a smirk, “Bring something to impress me with, then?”

Greg chuckled, throwing his aim off, “Give me a minute to finish up here and I just might.”

He unashamedly leaned up to steal a look, “Well I hope you’re a grower, not a shower then.”

Greg licked his lips, “I hope you know a better way to use that mouth of yours.”

“God, I love the drunk ones.” He murmured, seemingly to himself.

“And I love the shirty ones.” Greg shot back as he zipped up his jeans, pausing halfway, “Tell me now, darlin’, should I stop here? It’ll give me less to undo later.”

The young man scoffed and rolled his eyes, “You talk an awful lot for someone with your reputation.”

Greg stepped over quickly to the counter, flipping the man around to face him and invade his space, “And what reputation would that be?”

Their faces inches apart, the only reply he received was, “Oh, I think you know.”

Greg leaned his head forward to test the waters and was surprised when the other man met him halfway and crashed their lips together. He inhaled deeply, pulling them closer and running his tongue all around the inside of the stranger’s mouth. Unable to resist, he slipped his fingers inside the stranger’s pockets and tugged him into one of the stalls, forcefully slamming and locking it behind him.

By now they were both panting between feverish kisses and bites that nearly drew blood. Greg had the other man pressed up against the stall door and completely pressed against him. With shaky hands, Greg attempted to undo the button and zipper of the man’s jeans before his hands were slapped away and his stall-mate took care of it himself. Greg finished pulling down his own zipper and pulled his now-throbbing erect cock out before doing the same for the man across from him.

Groaning, Greg gripped both cocks, jerking his hand up and down them while thrusting his hips to match. His stranger gasped and broke their kiss, letting his head rest on Greg’s shoulder instead and trying desperately to contain every little noise that escaped between his plush lips. Taking advantage, Greg reached his hand up to lick a broad swipe on his palm before grasping their cocks again. And there, that made the friction absolutely perfect. Greg gave out a grunted cry and leaned his forehead against the cold, metal wall as he felt himself getting close and increased his thrusts.

Greg smirked, “This is...exactly what you wanted, eh? With your...snarky remarks and...posturing...God, practically gagging for it weren’t you?” The young man started furiously forcing his hips forward, further encouraging him, “Oh you were...ugh...I bet you’re an absolute...proper slut. God...what I want to do to that..perfect mouth of yours...I would slam my cock into it over and over...until there were bruises on the sides of your lips. Would you like that, you gorgeous slut?”

He felt the shudder before the younger man cried out and spent himself all over Greg’s hand. With a few extra strokes, Greg felt his own orgasm rush over him, blinding him for a moment and forcing him to brace himself with his free hand. When he opened his eyes again, his stall-mate had already finished fixing himself back up. Greg cocked an eyebrow and grabbed some toilet paper to tidy up with.

“Is that what my reputation is, then?” He asked as he wiped his hands clean.

The younger man smirked and wiped his brow, “I’m sure you were already aware of that.”

Greg tucked himself back into his jeans and zipped up, “Live up to your expectations?”

“It was certainly not....boring.”

He bit his bottom lip, “So...do you have a name?”

His stranger grinned, “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”

Greg was just about to ask him when the stranger swept out the stall door and left the bathroom. Still a little woozy from his cocktail of endorphins and alcohol intake, Greg slumped against the wall of the stall rather than follow after him. He did hope though, desperately so, that someone somewhere could force the insufferable git to come to another one of his shows.


	2. Compete, Compete, Do It For The Boys

The threat of rain was ever-present - although it seemed that was true of every bloody day. Still, the need to get out of his dingy flat combined with a desire to stay indoors had made Greg susceptible to his friend Mick’s request that they kill a few hours at a record store. If nothing else, Greg found that he always loved the vague musty smell that always accompanied record stores.

And this one, this one was Greg’s favorite. The owner might have been a bit of an old codger, but he never complained when Greg and his friends brought drinks in - fountain drinks from a petrol station refilled halfway with the kind of cheap vodka that comes in plastic bottles - or when they asked him to play records for them. Right now, the air was filled with the sarcastic tones of the Dead Milkmen and Greg was just starting to get a buzz from his cup of not-exactly-Sprite. So far, not exactly a shit way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

He was idly flipping through records while half-listening to Mick’s attempted flirting with a couple of high-schoolers when he caught a glimpse of a pale body out of the corner of his eye. Looking up, his jaw dropped when he spotted none other than one of his recent bathroom companions walking through the front door. The curly hair was a dead giveaway, and the poncey style was still very intact - Greg almost snorted when he noticed the nautical-like striped shirt he was wearing with a scarf thrown loosely over his shoulder. He wondered how on earth the git wasn't dying of heat stroke, Greg was wearing a sleeveless shirt and had definitely been sweating on the walk over.

Regaining his composure, he knew he remembered this one for a reason; he liked this one. He put on what he hoped was a dazzling smile and aimed it in the stranger’s direction, only to receive a simple eyebrow-raise in return.Then the bastard just walked over to the other side of the shop with some short, blonde kid in tow. _Probably to see if they have any Smiths...or anything else emotional and whiny_ , Greg thought to himself

After muttering a few expletives under his breath, Greg tried to ward off the dejection he was feeling and instead feigned interest in the Madness albums in front of him. Mick was hitting it off well, not surprising since 16 year olds are often still impressed by the whole "I'm in a band" thing, and his chipper tone made Greg take a long sip of what was really mostly vodka at this point. He was just about to snatch up a Bad Brains record and ask the old man to play it when a pale hand reached from behind him and pressed over his own tanned hand.

A deep voice tickled his ear, “Have you ever fucked in an alley?”

When all Greg could do was stutter, the voice chuckled, “Well, if you’re interested, the door on the far right is a back entrance. Exits out to one. Perhaps you could be there in, say...five minutes?”

The pale hand briefly squeezed his own before slowly sliding up his forearm and disappearing. Greg closed his eyes and winced once the warmth from the body behind him left. He flicked his eyes to right, but his stranger was already back on the other side of store. Although, he couldn’t help but notice that the younger man gave him a searing stare before looking back down. It was all Greg could do to keep his mind occupied until he finally noticed the lanky figure slyly sneaking out the back entrance. This was a game he had played more than once, and was rather good at; he cautiously waited thirty seconds before following him outside.

He shut the door as quietly as possible and glanced over to where the posh bastard was leaning against the wall. Of course, he had chosen a spot a few feet away, right next to a dumpster. Greg raised an eyebrow as he sauntered over and was rewarded with a healthy smirk. When he was close enough, the other man snagged ahold of his soda cup and sucked it dry before crumpling it and tossing it aside.

Greg licked his lips before smashing them into the ones of the man across from him. He braced his hands on the wall and pressed the younger man’s body fully against it, tilting his hips forward to rub their still-clothed groins against each other. He inhaled deeply then ran his tongue along the inside of the stranger’s teeth to gain admittance to the steamy mouth that lay behind them.

The man ran his hands up Greg’s back and spoke between wet, open kisses, “I seem to...remember you wanting....to do something with my mouth.”

Greg moaned and stepped back, “Perhaps another time,” He glanced down, “Those jeans of yours probably cost as much as my rent, I’d hate to see them get dirty.”

He ran his hands up and down the stranger’s torso before softly dropping to his knees. Looking up, he gave a mischievous grin before swiftly undoing the fasteners on the other man’s tight jeans. To his complete arousal, that bastard was deliciously pants-less and already half-hard. He delicately pulled the stranger’s cock out and gave it a few tight strokes before pressing the flat of his tongue against the slit. Slowly he began brushing it against the head with just enough pressure to make the man above him starting writhing and thrusting his hips.

Greg circled his tongue around it and pulled back, “I feel like I should ask your name first...”

The lanky git groaned in frustration, “Is it really that important?”

Greg smiled and began running his tongue leisurely along the bottom of his cock, “Fine. I’ll make you tell me then.”

Before his partner could respond, Greg took him in as deep as his mouth would allow, resting for a moment before relaxing his throat muscles and taking him in completely. He always loved this part: the choking gasps they would make at the sensation of being completely inside his mouth. It always caused him to take a pause and enjoy the pressure of their cock resting in his throat.

He circled his tongue along the shaft a few times before sucking in his cheeks and pulling all the way back down to the head and suckling on the very tip. At this point, the other man was gripping onto his shoulders so hard his knuckles were surely white. The pain, however, only aroused Greg more. He braced one hand on a thigh in front of him while he undid his own jeans with his other hand as fast as he could and gave himself swift jerks.  He moaned deeply and began bobbing his head over and over, occasionally repeating the process of sucking the cock all the way down and back to the tip.

Finally, he heard a strangulated cry above him and felt the warm come pour down his throat. The taste was bitter and salty like he expected, with a slight aftertaste of caramel. Perfect, he loved the ones with a sweet tooth. He let the cock fall out of his mouth and leaned his head against a pale thigh as he grunted through a few more strokes until his own orgasm rushed over him.

He wasn’t able to fully enjoy the afterglow before he heard a gruff voice from the other end of the alley call out, “OI! What are you up to down there, mate?”

Greg heard the man above him curse and call back, “None of your business! Just stepped out for a cigarette.”

The voice came closer, “Somehow I don’t believe you. Mind if I check?”

A strong hand held his head down to keep it behind the dumpster, “Really sergeant? Is that actually necessary?”

“Oh. I think it is.”

The flushed face of his companion was soon next to his, “Listen, Lestrade, when I stand up, I’m going to run. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll follow my lead.”

Greg blinked and the younger man had already taken off down the alley. It only took a second for Greg to adjust himself back into his pants and rush behind him, laughing at the yelping cry of the sergeant who was quickly failing to catch up with them. He panicked when briefly he lost sight of the gorgeous creature he was chasing, but he found him standing around the next corner he took.

The piercing gaze was on him again, “It’s Sherlock.”

He gave him a confused look, “I’m sorry, what?”

The younger man rolled his eyes, “My name. It’s Sherlock.”

“See? Told you I’d make you tell me.” Greg licked his lips again.

“Yes, you can gloat later when we don’t have to worry about community officers,” Sherlock reached down and grabbed his hand, “Follow me, we can head to my flat.”

Greg flashed his most lascivious grin and started running after him again.


	3. If You Love Someone, Set Them On Fire

He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but this was the biggest flat he’d ever seen. For fuck’s sake, there were TWO floors, connected by a winding, metal staircase. And he was fairly certain that the sitting area was larger than his entire flat. He had to remind himself to keep his jaw shut and his nonchalance on point as he unlaced his boots, there was nothing more off-putting than looking like a street urchin that’s seen chocolate cake for the first time.

“So...” He set his boots down and leaned against the back of the leather sofa, “This is your place, then?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Before you ask, my parents purchased it for me. It’s a bit much, but I’ve got room upstairs that I use for experiments and the neighbors aren’t too awful.”

“Experiments? So...chemistry...biology?”

“Chemistry. Specifically, at the moment, toxicology.”

“So you’re in uni, then?”

Sherlock moved towards the fridge, “Would you like some water?”

Greg coughed, “I’m sorry, what?”

“Water. We just went on a bit of a jog and you’ve already had quite a lot to drink this afternoon. Thought you might be dehydrated.”

He scoffed, “It really wasn’t that...much...huh. Alright it was perhaps a little much.”

Sherlock smiled as he handed him a cold glass. He finally pulled off his scarf as he stepped away and Greg saw why he was wearing it in the first place: purple and red marks dotted his neck and collarbone. The sight was enough to make Greg choke on his water. When Sherlock realised why, he smirked.

“See something interesting, Lestrade?”

“It just uh...looks like you had an interesting evening.”

He ran his tongue over his lips, “Yes, actually, I did.”

Greg copied the gesture before catching himself, “Um. Well, toxicology, right? That’s viruses and the like, innit? Bit dangerous to handle in a regular flat.”

“Oh Lestrade, don’t tell me that you’re an undercover cop. Are you going to turn me in?” He leaned closer to rest his hands on either side of Greg, “Would you like to handcuff me, Lestrade?”

Greg sucked in a breath, “You know I have a first name, right?”

“Hmm. Yes. ‘Greg’. It’s a bit boring. ‘Lestrade’ though,” He leaned in more, “That’s interesting. Comes from the French word ‘l’estrade’ which means ‘a raised platform’ and,” He looked down, “Well, it looks like you’ve got one.”

An observation that was, not surprisingly, accurate. Greg had noticed for the past few minutes that his jeans had gotten impossibly tighter, even more so when an errant curl had fallen forward and grazed against his cheek. Seamlessly, without Greg even noticing, Sherlock had managed to invade his personal space so much that they were only breathing each other’s air.

 _This is a very bad idea_ , Greg reminded himself as he lunged forward to press his lips against the ones across from him. But the vodka was still working its way through his system and he was still feeling very tipsy. The type of state where very bad ideas turn into very good ones. Where initial apprehension over the exceedingly posh git in front of you is turns into an absolute need to have your hands all over him at once.

Greg hastily placed the water glass on what he hoped was a side table and swept his hands under Sherlock’s shirt, removing it with relative ease before following suit with his own. He briefly ran his hands up the newly exposed pale chest before allowing Sherlock to interlock their fingers and lead him to the bedroom.

Sherlock briefly broke their frantic kiss, "We're about to go up the stairs, be sure not to stumble."

Greg chuckled, "Oh really? With the experiments? I'm not going to get anthrax am I?"

"You do know that anthrax isn't a disease you can be infected with, right?"

Greg responded by biting down on Sherlock's bottom lip, forcing the young man to let out a deep groan and nearly buckle his knees. Greg moaned as he tasted copper and eagerly sucked on Sherlock's lip. Possibly only Greg’s bracing hands prevented them both from tumbling down the stairs. Once they were steady again, Sherlock released one hand to unbutton his jeans and loosen the fly.

Greg giggled, "Eager, are we?"

"Aren't you?"

"...Yes." He inhaled sharply and quickly undid his own jeans, stepping out of them once they finally reached the landing.

Sherlock fell backwards onto the bed and got a good look at a nearly-naked Greg, "My my, Lestrade. What is it they say about the pot and the kettle?"

Greg looked down at the deep red scratch marks trailing along his hipbones. Ah yes, he hadn't really forgotten about those, just held the incident in the back of his mind. He couldn't remember much about the bloke that had marked him, and didn't really want to at the moment. Not when there was a gorgeously pale body with flushed cheeks, swollen lips, and darkened eyes that were staring at him hungrily.

He smirked, "Jealous?"

Sherlock reached up and pulled him down into another searing kiss. Greg ran his tongue all along Sherlock's teeth before it was finally allowed entrance. He braced himself and rutted against the man beneath him until he realised that he absolutely needed the friction from skin-on-skin contact. With one hand, he forcefully yanked off his own pants before pulling Sherlock's hips up and doing the same for him.

Greg sat up, "Do you have...?"

"Side table drawer." Sherlock panted out.

He reached over and slid the drawer open, smiling wryly when he saw how well-stocked it was. Grabbing a bottle and rubber, he settled back between Sherlock's legs and spread them wide. He liberally applied lube to his fingers before rubbing one over his entrance, gently pushing until he was just able to breach inside.

Working quickly was something Greg had gotten very good at and it wasn't long before he had two fingers fully inside Sherlock and massaging him open. His hand moved frantically until Sherlock was pushing himself further against Greg's fingers and letting out fevered gasps. That was his cue; he withdrew his fingers and flung Sherlock's legs over his shoulders. With wanton desperation, he sloppily coated his cock  before pressing it against Sherlock's hole and pushing in.

He flicked his eyes up, "Do you want me to go slowly?"

"If you do, I'll infect you with anthrax."

Greg bit his lip and thrust all the way in, bending down and folding Sherlock nearly in half in the process. For a moment, he simply stayed put, allowing Sherlock time to adjust to the feeling - although _god_ if it felt as good to him as it felt to Greg... - waiting for a sign that it was all right for him to start moving.

As if he was reading Greg's mind, Sherlock braced against the headboard and began thrusting greedily upwards. Greg buried his head in the crook of Sherlock's neck and fiercely pounded into him, rocking them both against the sheets. The skin against Greg's lips was already slick and salty with sweat; he ravenously licked along the collarbone and shoulder before switching to small, nibbling bites.

Then, he remembered the love-bites currently dotting the area he had just had his tongue on. He let out a low-pitched growl and began working on a bruise of his own, one that would be darker, bigger, newer than the others. One that would warn others to stay away. The sharp scratches he could feel going down his back told him that he wasn't the only one with that idea.

It wouldn't be much longer, not at the frantic pace they were going. Greg reached between them and tightly stroked Sherlock's cock until the man beneath him arched his back and cried out over and over. The pulsing clench around Greg's cock was more than enough to send him crashing over the edge. He bit down on Sherlock's shoulder to muffle the cry coming out of his gut - only a throaty groan escaping.

After shallowly thrusting a few more times, Greg slowly pulled out and flopped messily over to the other side of the bed. He ruffled a hand through his short hair and stretched his legs out.

Smiling playfully, he swung his head over to look at Sherlock, "That was..."

"Not boring."

"Huh. Well I'm glad I can continue to not bore you."

"Good," Sherlock nestled against his side and nuzzled against him, "I hate being bored."


	4. A Growing Boy Needs His Lunch

The stagelights were fucking brutal; Greg had long abandoned his shirt and could feel the sweat running down his bare chest. He leaned forward to sing his part of the final chorus and banged out the final bass lines. The mostly-drunk crowd erupted in applause.

Greg panted and reached for his beer. He scanned the crowd, looking for a specific face, one topped with dark, curly hair. And there he was, managing not to look too miserable despite being crowded on all sides by fairly intoxicated people. Dear God, he looked good in Greg's old Sisters of Mercy shirt, even if it was too big for him.

Their eyes immediately met and Greg smiled at him as he took a quick sip of his beer then trailed the cold bottle slowly down his chest, pumping his hips as he did it. There were more than a few cheers from the crowd, letting Greg know that Sherlock wasn't the only one interested. But Sherlock was the only one, right now, that mattered. Greg watched his lips part and his eyes darken, the exact result he'd wanted.  

The drum part for the next song started up viciously. Greg chugged almost all of his beer, pouring the rest over the top of his head and shaking it off. He dragged his tongue across his teeth, keeping his eyes on Sherlock the entire time. Thrusting his hips again, he started his bass line, bobbing his head along with the beat.

After the set was over, Greg barely had time to jump off stage before Sherlock was in his space, two fingers in the waistband of his jeans to drag him closer. A situation that made Greg very glad that his jeans hung so slow on his hips. For a moment, Sherlock stood fixated on him, wide eyes flickering over his face, before firmly bringing their lips together and sliding them hungrily.

Just as quickly, Sherlock pulled away and leaned into Greg’s ear, “Your flat, how far away is it?”

Greg gasped, “From here? Umm...a ten minute ride I think.”

“Then I suggest you grab your jacket.” Sherlock ran his hand up and around Greg’s chest before pulling away.

“I...I can’t,” Greg frowned, “I’ve still gotta stay ‘til the end to help load things up.”

Sherlock traced his lips with his pointer finger, “We are able to come back you know...unless you just really don’t want to leave here with me.”

“I’ll grab my jacket.”

After snatching one more kiss, Sherlock followed him backstage and out the backdoor exit to where Greg’s motorcycle was waiting. Greg zipped up his jacket and handed Sherlock his helmet, jerking it emphatically when Sherlock stubbornly crossed his arms. Finally, Greg reached forward and pushed it onto Sherlock’s head despite his protests and within a minute they were headed to Greg’s flat, Sherlock’s arms wrapped tightly around his torso.

Greg knew that he drove too fast, he always had, but he found it difficult to resist, especially at night when the streets were mostly empty. And now there was the added benefit of Sherlock grasping him tighter the faster he drove. And, because of their proximity, Greg could tell just how much Sherlock enjoyed being a little scared.

Once they reached Greg’s apartment - in six minutes no less - they couldn’t get inside fast enough. Sherlock fidgeted impatiently while waiting for Greg to find the right key for his apartment, finally grabbing the keyring himself and unlocking it. He forcefully pushed Greg inside and slammed the door shut. Greg grabbed him by the t-shirt and jerked him forward into a painful, harsh kiss, biting his bottom lip before running his tongue along the plump, swollen skin.

Sherlock pushed him back, “Take your belt off and go sit on the couch.”

Greg raised an eyebrow, “Sorry, are you ordering me around?”

“Please? Please remove your belt, give it to me, and please sit on the couch? Because I’d really like to suck your cock and it’ll be easier that way.”

“Alright then,” Greg gasped out, “Should’ve just asked like that in the first place.”

With care, Greg slid his studded belt out of the loops and handed it over before settling onto the couch with his knees spread wide. Sherlock knelt before him and ran his hands up and down Greg’s thighs before carefully undoing his jeans. Greg helpfully lifted his hips up so Sherlock could tug them downwards.

Sherlock licked his lips, “No pants?”

“Can’t wear any with these. They’re too tight.”

“Thank God for that.”

Greg tried to toe his boots off, but Sherlock stopped him, “No. Leave them on.”

“Right...Okay.”

He watched as Sherlock turned his belt around and looped the strap through the buckle so that the spikes were facing inside. To his extreme arousal, Sherlock then pulled the loop over his head and handed the end of the strap to Greg.  

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t go easy on me. I’ll squeeze your knee if it’s too much, twice if I need you to stop, alright?”

“Oh God, much more than alright.”

Sherlock grinned then leaned forward to run his tongue up the length of Greg’s cock. He circled his tongue around the head a few times before swallowing him down to the root. The sensation felt absolutely amazing and Greg returned the favor by pulling on the belt strap. A deep moan rumbled out from Sherlock, sending delicious vibrations down his cock. Greg pulled on the strap again and Sherlock began bobbing his head, his saliva mixing with the precum leaking from the head.

By now, Greg had given up trying to control the guttural noises that kept coming out of his mouth. He wrapped the strap around his hand and tugged it one last time, nearly losing it when an absolutely inhumane sound came from Sherlock. He went down his entire length again - humming at the bottom. Greg noticed that he had paused, taking shallow breaths, and worried that he'd gone too far. He started to loosen the belt, but Sherlock reached up and held his hand firm, then hollowed his cheeks and slowly pulled his way all the way to the tip.

And that, that was too much. Every nerve in his body felt electric all at once and he felt himself pulsing into Sherlock’s impossibly perfect mouth. A perfect mouth that he needed right that moment; he grabbed Sherlock by the hair and dragged him upwards until he could smash their lips together. With his free hand, he reached forward and undid Sherlock’s jeans, grabbing his cock out and giving it tight, smooth jerks until the younger man was panting and whining into his mouth.

Sherlock shuddered and collapsed against him, clumsily straddling Greg’s lap and wrapping his arms around him. He’d probably never get the stains out of his shirt, but Greg wasn’t bothered by it then. Not when there are small indentations all along Sherlock's skin. Perfect little pointed marks, flashing red against his ridiculously pale skin. A new Sisters of Mercy shirt could always be bought, but Greg wasn’t sure he’d often get lucky enough to find another Sherlock.


	5. Think they're smart, can't think for themselves

It had been another fairly successful show; of course most of the people were there to see the headliners, but they’d seemed to really enjoy Greg’s band. And, from the glances he’d gotten from the crowd while onstage, more than a few looked like they really wanted to enjoy Greg. It had been difficult to ignore, even as he’d been searching for bright, impossibly blue eyes and dark, curly hair. But by the end of their set, he’d given up hope that the ridiculous git was going to show up.

Which was fine, really, Sherlock hadn’t exactly said that he would be there, Greg had just wanted him there. And expected him to show up, like he had been on a regular basis recently. It had been...rather nice, actually. Greg had even been amused to realise that Sherlock was actually starting to enjoy himself, even if he’d never come close to admitting it. So he couldn’t help but feel a slight twinge of disappointment as he resigned himself to an evening spent drinking a couple - or so - beers on his own.

Or not. As he was walking to the bar, he felt a tug around his neck as a hand gripped the skinny tie he was wearing. He stopped abruptly and jerked in the direction of the pull, smiling when he saw a pretty blond girl on the other end of the shiny, stained fabric. A warm hand ran up his bare shoulder and he turned his head quickly to see a handsome blonde boy who looked strikingly similar to the girl.

_Oh God_. He thought to himself, _A pigeon pair. A motherfucking pigeon pair!_

The girl spoke first, “You looked really nice up onstage.”

Greg gave her his cheekiest grin, “Oh did I?”

She nodded, “Very much so. And well...” Her eyes flicked back and forth between Greg and her brother, “My brother and I were wondering if we could show you something...in one of the bathroom stalls.”

“Really?”

The boy bit his lip, “Absolutely.”

Greg nodded and allowed himself to be pulled by the twins into the bathroom. He honestly couldn’t believe his luck; him and his mates had been trying since sixth form to bag a pigeon pair. And he was going to be the first one to actually do it. Perhaps tonight wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Before the latch to the stall door had even clicked, the girl voraciously attacked his mouth. Greg groaned as soft lips pressed against his, but something felt off. Two sets of firm hands were moving against his bare chest; the smaller ones moving upward while larger ones migrated lower until they were unfastening his tight jeans. A warm, delicate tongue slid inside his mouth, but it didn’t quite feel right.

Then, warm heat surrounded his cock as a second mouth wrapped around it, but the lips were all wrong. Teeth were biting his bottom lip but it wasn’t the same. He tried to concentrate on the multiple sensations going on against his body, but his brain kept focusing on the incongruity between what was happening to him and what he actually wanted.

There was a gorgeous mouth doing amazing things to his dick, but the lips were too thin. The tongue gliding against his own wasn’t as long as it should have been. The hands weren’t large enough, the fingers weren’t long enough or slender enough. One had hair that was too straight, the other’s hair was too short. He tried to get his mind back on track, feeling a bit like Goldilocks frowning at all the sex porridge being freely handed to her, but it stubbornly refused. This _wasn’t_ what he wanted.

Regretfully, he pulled back, “I’m sorry. I just...” The girl looked at him confused and the boy pulled off his cock with a hurt expression, “It’s nothing wrong with you two really, you’re both quite...” He forced himself past them, “I just can’t do this...right now.”

He grit his teeth as he hastily made his exit from the venue, grabbing his leather jacket on the way out and practically jumping on his bike once he was in the alley. Once he was on his way - trying desperately to remember the way there - he let a smile eke out under his helmet. He hadn’t asked Sherlock to be there, he shouldn’t have expected Sherlock to be there, Sherlock probably just didn’t want him to think he was crowding him. That was all there was to it, right?

The smile had turned into a full-on grin by the time he parked his bike near Sherlock’s flat and practically jogged to his building. As he was nearing the front door, he froze as a tall, dark-skinned bloke exited, followed closely by Sherlock. Greg watched, unmoving, as the two embraced firmly and the stranger kissed Sherlock on the cheek before leaving and walking down the street in the opposite direction. Greg fists clenched and he felt an overwhelming burn to chase after him, but Sherlock caught his eyes first,

“Lestrade! I wasn’t expecting you until later!” His smile was large, larger than normal. To Greg, it made him feel more disconcerted than relieved.

It did nothing to quell his anger either, “Oh really? Who the fuck was that then?”

Sherlock seemed flustered but the smile remained, “You mean Victor? Old friend,” He turned his head, “More of a dealer these days.”

Greg stopped in front of him, “Dealer?”

“You know...sometimes I need things. And Victor brings them to me.”

“Uh huh. Is that all he does?”

Sherlock furrowed his brow, “Lestrade. Are you exercising some form of jealousy? Bit strange considering you reek of cheap perfume.”

Greg tried biting his tongue but couldn’t hold it in, “Probably because I almost bagged a pigeon pair tonight. Do you know how fucking _rare_ that is?”

“I’m sorry...a what?”

“You know,” Greg sighed, “Fraternal twins. Boy/girl. It’s the dream.”

“I see.”

“But I couldn’t go through with it. Do you know why?”

“Mmm...I haven’t the foggiest.”

“Because of you. Bloody you. Your stupid face and hands and...lips were all I could think about. Turned out fantastically by the way, since you’re apparently just fine gettin' off with your fucking drug dealer.”

“Oh look at you,” Sherlock scoffed and leaned closer, “So tell me, how far did you get before your conscience ate at you? How deep was her tongue down your throat? How long was his mouth on your cock?”

Greg sputtered, “What...how...?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Oh please. Do you know why Victor sometimes visits me? My mind is constantly racing, taking in every bit of information the world offers me. When I’m in a dark, dingy club watching you assault your bass guitar, I’m constantly assaulted by the leering walk of drunks fallen off the wagon, the twitching gestures of junkies aching for a fix, the guilty aroma of someone having an affair,” He widened his eyes and paused, licking his lips, “But the lovely thing, you see, about cocaine, is that it brings everything into focus” He slowly brought his hands together in front of Greg, “With it, I’m not bombarded by every little thing and I can bring my attention to What’s. Right. In. Front of Me. That’s why I can tell that your lips are still a bit swollen, but not from biting them anxiously, no, something more sensual. And in your supposed haste, you forgot to button your jeans or zip up all the way,” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, “All quite easy when you know what to look for. So don’t badger me and act like you’re some innocent angel.”

Greg sneered, “You fucking addict -”

Sherlock swooped impossibly closer, “Strange judgement coming from you, considering that I’ve never seen you sober. How many have you had tonight? Three? Four?”

“That’s not the same and you know it.”

“No, you’re quite right about that. I occasionally do cocaine because it helps sharpen my thinking. You drink constantly to try and forget the fact you have no idea what you want to do with your life and you’re terrified that you’ll end up like your father.”

Greg nearly punched him, but caught himself before actually landing it. Sherlock flinched anyway. He was at a loss as to how they had gotten to this point. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. By now, he should have had Sherlock writhing helplessly underneath him, not staring at him coldly like Greg would attack him given the slightest inclination.

“Oh sod this,” Greg turned and stomped a few steps before turning back around, “For the record, I did make a hasty exit. Because like I said, I realised that I wanted to be with you. Ridiculous, brilliant, insufferable YOU. The one thing that my mates and I have been talking about for almost five years was handed to me on a fucking silver platter and I walked away from it because it wasn’t what I wanted. And no matter how cruel you act, I still want you, even right now if you asked me. But I'm not going to stand here and beg for it like an arsehole, so if you want me, fucking well come and find me.”

Greg forcefully pulled his helmet on and stalked the rest of his way to his bike, praying that Sherlock would run after him, grab his arm and ask him to stay. He looked down as he kick-started his bike, knowing that Sherlock wouldn’t be walking towards him. Before hitting the throttle, he paused for a second... _just in case, just in case_. He hazarded a glance upwards and saw that Sherlock wasn’t even in front of the door anymore, he’d already gone inside.

If Greg’s eyes were a little moist, he ignored it as he grimaced, revved the engine as loud as he possibly could, and sped away.


	6. Don't Lust Off My Body Baby, That's A Bore

A bead of sweat rolled its way down Greg’s crooked nose and onto the pavement between his crouched knees. In his mind, it sizzled a bit, although the likelihood of that actually happening was slim; it was dreadfully hot, but not that hot. Still, Greg had taken his shirt off a long time ago, now using it as a grease rag instead. He took a sip from his water bottle before pouring some over his face and wiping it off with his dirty shirt. It was probably too hot to be doing this now, but Myrtle was in desperate need of an oil change and he wouldn’t get another chance this week.

He was just tightening the drain bolt when a shadow crossed his face. Grimacing, he shielded his hand from the sun and looked up, expecting to see his landlord chastising him again for changing the oil in the alley behind the apartment building. Instead, impossibly turquoise eyes were nervously staring back at him. He noticed one of Sherlock’s feet fidgeting a bit while he anxiously bit his lip. He tried not to notice how tight his t-shirt was, or how the rolled up sleeves showed off the little bit of defined muscle in his arms. He definitely tried not to notice how tight his light-colored jeans were.

Sherlock spoke first, “Um...if you’re busy, I can come back later.”

Greg grinned through the grime covering his face, “No it’s alright, just finishing up, what brings you by?” He stood up and stretched his muscles, definitely on purpose.

“If I recall correctly, you told me that I should ‘fucking well come find you’-”

“Only if you wanted me.”

“I did and I do...” Sherlock’s voice was confident, but his downcast gaze spoke of apprehension.

“Do you really?” In the three weeks that had passed, Greg’s mind had wandered often to the waifish figure in front of him, but he never wanted to feel again the way he did when he’d driven angrily away from Sherlock’s apartment.

Sherlock fiddled with his hands, “Do you remember when you told me... when you were with other people, that it was me who dominated your thoughts?”

Greg laughed nervously, “Something like that, yeah.”

“Well, I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’ve thought about you - a lot - these past twenty-two days. You have been stubbornly stuck in my mind palace-”

“Mind palace?”

“It’s a memory technique, don’t worry about it. The point is, I’ve wanted to come for you every day since you left but I was waiting until...” He sighed deeply and the side of his mouth quirked up a bit, “I’ve been clean for five days now.”

Greg stood up and grabbed his hand, “Have you ever driven a motorcycle?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed, “I’m sorry?”

“A motorcycle, have you ever driven one? I know you’ve ridden one, but driving one is a completely different animal.”

“Lestrade I have to say that I’m a bit confu-”

“Come on inside, let me wash up a bit and I’ll show you how.”

Sherlock’s mouth open and closed a few times, but he finally let Greg tug him inside of his flat. Greg pointed him towards the kitchen in case he wanted some tea, but Sherlock seemed content to fiddle around with Greg’s record collection, expressing displeasure more often than not. The sight created a familiar warmth in Greg’s belly and he rushed into the bathroom to shower as quickly as possible. His skin was red and raw by the time he finished scrubbing away the grease, causing him to wince and grit his teeth when he dressed himself. As he was tugging a clean, sleeveless shirt on, he happened to catch Sherlock staring at him from the doorway.

“See something you like, then?”

Sherlock licked his lips, “Maybe.”

He started to walk towards him, but Greg put up a hand to stop him, “Not now,” He brushed past Sherlock, ignoring his annoyed expression, “C’mon, let’s teach you somethin’ useful.”

“I know lots of useful things.”

Greg turned around and grinned, walking backwards, “Somethin’ _else_ useful, then.”

Once they were back outside and on the bike, Sherlock tugged Greg’s helmet on without any bickering and wrapped his arms around Greg’s chest. Greg smiled, especially because he knew Sherlock couldn’t see, and leaned back a bit as he kick-started Myrtle. The tug against him as they sped off was like a bandage covering a wound he had been steadfastly trying to ignore and he deliberately took the long way to an abandoned car park.

There had once been a strip mall there, but a less-than-stellar economy had caused all the tenants to either move or go out of business. Parts of the building still stood, albeit covered in graffiti and mostly used by drug addicts, but the car park itself was still in decent condition. When they arrived, Greg had Sherlock switch places with him so he could show him the basics.

Greg leaned over him and covered Sherlock’s hands with his own, “Alright, make sure the fuel is on, turn the choke up, now once you hit the starter with your foot, you just give it a little gas alright?”

“Hit it with my foot?”

“You know, kick it. Kick it as hard as you can!”

Greg smiled as the motorcycle rumbled to life. His hand stayed on top of Sherlock’s as he guided him on how to gently twist the throttle back. It was difficult to stay focused when his skin practically tingled from the amount of contact, but he refused to give in at that moment.

“Okay darlin’, now gently ease up on the clutch, whoa, easy easy!” He laughed as the bike rushed then halted, “No worries, mate, we’ll keep at it.”

It took a few more tries, but eventually Sherlock was able to start it and kick it into first gear without a problem. Greg hopped off the back and moved about 15 metres in front of the bike, urging Sherlock to drive towards him. He gave an exasperated huff when Sherlock shook his head and refused to accelerate.

He flicked the visor up, “I’m not entirely comfortable with that, Lestrade, what if I run over you?”

“Well, don’t run over me, alright?”

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“As an incredibly sexy git once told me, ‘What is it they say about the pot and the kettle?’”

Sherlock smirked and pushed the visor back down, shifting the motorcycle into gear and driving it hesitatingly forwards until it stopped right in front of where Greg stood.

Greg chuckled, “Not bad, not bad. My granny moves faster than that on her way to watch telly, but not bad.”

Through the visor, he could see Sherlock narrow his eyes at him and purse his lips, which only made Greg laugh harder. Obviously annoyed, Sherlock snapped down the kickstand and stepped off, whipping off his helmet and tossing it on the ground. He started to strut away before Greg grabbed his arm and pulled him back around to face him.

“Hey, look, I’m sorry. No need to get upset, alright? I was just taking the piss. You were actually doing really well.”

Sherlock huffed, “I don’t understand why you’re having me do this, what is the point of it, exactly?”

Greg tugged him close, “Because I missed you, okay? And I realised that what I missed most was just being around you, spending time with you. So if you really missed me too and you really want this,” He gestured between the two of them, “Then I want us to have something that’s more than just a purely physical relationship. And I want you to want that, too.” Sherlock hurriedly pressed a kiss onto his lips but Greg pushed him away, “I appreciate the sentiment but that’s not exactly a proper answer when someone tells you they want more.”

“I apologise...it’s just,” Sherlock had his hands on his hips and was chewing on his bottom lip again, “It’s just that no one’s ever said that to me before. No one’s ever wanted that from me before.”

“You can trust me when I say that’s what I want. All of you. Is that what you want from me?”

“If I say yes, will you take me back to your place and spend the rest of the day with me in a purely physical way?”

The side of Greg’s mouth quirked up in a smile, “Only if you mean it.”

Sherlock’s eyes locked onto his, “Yes. Please.”

After a pause, Greg picked up the helmet and tossed it to him, “Alright then. I’m driving though, I’d like to get there before nightfall.”

Sherlock pulled on the helmet and grumbled, “Maybe I just need a better instructor,” Hopping onto the bike behind Greg.

He turned his head, “Oi! Maybe I just make you walk back, eh?”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Greg shrugged his shoulders, “Eh, you’re right. Poncey git like you is bound to get mugged on these streets.” Sherlock, unable to be heard once Greg started the engine, pinched his nipple in protest, “Ooh, love. Save it for when we get to the flat.”

The drive back wasn’t far, now that Greg had a reason to get back quickly, and Sherlock nearly hopped off the bike before Greg even parked it. Once they were inside the dingy flat, after racing up the creaking stairs, Greg pressed Sherlock against the door and roughly kissed him, making liberal use of his teeth on Sherlock’s full lips. He frantically pushed the hem of Sherlock’s shirt up before tugging it over his messy curls and following suit with his own. Greg placed his hands firmly on either side of Sherlock’s jaw and leaned into him as he crushed their lips back together, eager for the yearning noises coming from Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock pulled back, “Have you...been with anyone else since...?”

Greg didn’t see any point in lying, “Yes. I’m sorry, but yes.”

“No no, it’s fine. I’d rather not think you were...sad and... pining for me or something.”

“Have you?”

“Been with anyone?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. Yes.”

“That’s alright. You’re here now. That’s all I care about.”

Sherlock reinitiated their kiss as he hurriedly undid his own jeans before unfastening Greg’s, pushing them both down and deftly stepping out of his own. Greg tugged him forwards by the waistband of his pants -  less-gracefully stepping out of his own jeans in the process - until the back of Greg’s knees hit the couch cushion. As he sat, he pulled Sherlock down with him, forcing him to straddle his lap. With a firm touch, he slid his hands up Sherlock’s thighs and around his back, gripping his arse tightly and encouraging him to rut against him.

Breaking the kiss, Greg leaned forward to huskily whisper in Sherlock’s ear, “Tell me, when you were with other people, afterwards, did you think of me? Tell me that you lied in bed afterwards, thinking about me, naked, pressing against you...”

Sherlock breathed against his skin, “Yes...”

“The roughness of my skin rubbing against every part of you. My hips pressed against your hips and my hands roaming all over your body.”

Sherlock pressed further down onto him, further grinding their still-clothed cocks together in a staccato rhythm. The feeling caused Greg to give out a deep groan as he slid one hand inside of Sherlock’s pants, spreading his own legs wider to allow him access between his taut cheeks. One finger circled Sherlock’s hole, gently but persistently, as Greg bit and tugged on Sherlock’s earlobe before continuing.

“And you imagined me pushing you down on the bed and ripping your clothes off. You’d want me to climb onto you,” Greg sighed deeply, “And into you...”

Sherlock let out small gasping noises as Greg’s finger finally breached him, moving quickly in and out until he was able to force the whole thing in and swiftly add another.

“ _Deep_ inside you.”

With a frustrated moan, Sherlock yanked down the front of Greg’s pants and wrapped his hand around Greg’s already-throbbing cock. His hand moved hastily, pausing only to rub his thumb around the slit at the very top.

Sherlock licked his lips, “Please Lestrade, I need you to fuck me. With your cock.”

Greg panted, “Of course, love. There’s condoms in my bedr-”

“There’s one in my jeans.”

Greg pulled his hand out of Sherlock and placed both on Sherlock's hips, “Planning for this, were you?”

“Statistically, this was one of three outcomes I was expecting,” He climbed off Greg’s lap and went to pick up his jeans, “And the one I was hoping for the most, obviously.” He smirked as he rifled through his pockets until he found the shiny, foil package.

Greg lifted up his hips to pull his pants off, discarding them to the side and settling back in. Sherlock made hasty work of his own as he made his way back to the couch and slowly lowered himself into Greg's lap. Greg groaned and threw his head back as Sherlock made small circles with his hips, brushing over his groin. When Sherlock finally handed him the condom, Greg ripped it open with his teeth and patted Sherlock on the thigh, gesturing for him to lift up.

"Are you sure you're ready? Greg asked as he slid the condom on and ran his hand up and down his cock a few times.

"Yes, yes, please."

Sherlock lowered his head to capture Greg's mouth as he slowly lowered himself onto him. Occasionally he would pull back and pant desperately as Greg's cock filled him, immediately seeking out Greg's lips again after a few seconds. Once Greg was fully seated inside of him the feeling was glorious - tight and perfect just the way he remembered.

His hands moved lightly over Sherlock's hips and back, trying to help relax him further. It seemed to work as it wasn't long before Sherlock began rocking back and forth, bracing himself on Greg's shoulders and working himself on Greg's cock.

Greg placed bites - some gently, some not so much- everywhere he could reach, Sherlock's chest, his shoulder, the inside of his arm. Finally, he leaned forward and grazed his teeth across his nipple, pleased with the gasp and stuttering motion it elicited from the man currently riding his cock. He grinned and began sucking on the same area, intermittently running his tongue over the sensitive skin. In response, Sherlock's gasps and whimpers became more frenzied, his rhythm more frantic.

Greg leaned up and growled against his skin, "Yeah, you love fucking yourself on my cock, don't you? I don't even need to touch you," He lowered his voice as much as possible, "Because you're going to come just from the feeling of me inside you. Aren't you?"

Greg felt the contractions before Sherlock grit his teeth and threw his head back, making absolutely inhuman noises. The muscles in his abdomen clenched as he painted stripes across Greg's chest and stomach. Greg bit his lip and grabbed Sherlock's hips, thrusting up into him until his own orgasm washed over him and made him feel boneless.

He rested his head against Sherlock's chest for a moment until he could summon up enough strength to move the dead weight of Sherlock off him and head to the bedroom for a clean flannel and a blanket. After wiping them both clean - mostly himself - he gently laid Sherlock on the couch and nestled beside him, covering them both with the blanket.

Sherlock nudged his nose, "Lestrade, I feel like there's something I should say..."

"No need to thank me, it was my pleasure, believe me."

"No, I mean..." He dropped his gaze, "I've tried to quit before and relapsed. And I'm really going to try this time but...there might be a time.... I might..."

Greg gave him a gentle kiss, "I don't expect you to just easily quit cold turkey, okay? But I'm here for whatever you need. Really. No matter what."

Sherlock nestled against his chest, "Thank you, Lestrade."

"Of course. Now rest up, I promised you the whole day, didn't I?"

As Greg felt himself drifting off, he buried his head in Sherlock's curls and thought to himself, _This could be good. This could be really, really good._

 

 


End file.
